Sun, 15 Apr 2018 11:54:56 -0400WeeblyThu, 19 Jan 2017 14:36:30 GMThttp://www.townhalldialogue.com/reflections/the-day-after-its-been-a-long-dayThis submission was written by an anonymous contributor who worked on the Hillary for America Campaign.

I am a former campaign organizer from a major battleground state who was “working to elect democratic candidates up and down the ballot.” So it goes without saying that the election season of 2016 changed my life. Beyond the obvious major upset of the election of an orange racist, sexist, privileged, childish, insecure man, having the chance to work on a campaign was an eye opening experience.

Now I know we’ve been discussing the day after the election, but for my story you have to know a little bit about the days before to understand what the day after was like…

As an organizer my days ran for about 14-16 hours a day every single day of the week – no breaks, except for sleep which was more like a nap. We spent countless hours out in the heat (often forgoing food to save time) with clipboards, info sheets, and pens in hand asking anyone and everyone if they were up to date on their registration. You know those pushy sales people at the mall stands that try to pull you in with questions? We were like that except we’d chase you down and walk along with you until you told us to fuck off or threaten to call the cops. But unlike salespeople who try to sell products, we were trying to save the world from a Trump Presidency.

Every day in the evenings we’d sit for 4 hours to plug in ~150 calls talking to strangers, ring after ring after ring, about their support, and on the weekends we knocked on hundreds of doors to talk to folks in person. In between our work, we were yelled at, we were spat on, we were threatened, cursed, belittled, occasionally attacked and encountered other frightening situations.

What’s your work like? People asked. My answer: There is at least one point every single day when I just wanted to sit and quit and hide in a corner. But then there was also a moment in every day when I was reminded of why my work was so important. This got me fired up and ready to get up the next day and do it all over again.

All these days really became one long day in preparation for a good night's sleep on November 8th.

On the night of November 8th 2016, I was ready to be done with the election season of 2016. I was ready to put all of the negative interactions and horrendous people I had met in the months before behind me.

Until the last minutes of the polls being open, we were out knocking on every door we could reach before returning to watch results come in at our local offices. I thought I was ready; I wasn’t.

I can’t recall the exact time but I physically fainted at some point in the evening. I couldn’t breathe as I saw his face plastered on the screen with every update. It was as if I allowed myself to take a breath, the reality of his victory would become real--so I held it. The night passed in a blur, some people were screaming in their phones outside, some were silently sobbing by the wall. But mostly people were just holding onto one another.

I didn’t sleep for the next two days until exhaustion wore me down. Our team walked with a large cloud of depression wherever we went. Frankly the protests that erupted around the country immediately the next day were insulting and I didn’t care for people’s anger then. Where had everyone been in the months, the weeks, the days before when organizers were begging for an hour of their time? The power from those protests alone could have made a difference.

But this was just the beginning of the could-have, should-have, and would-have…

Many of us from the campaign chose not to talk to anyone outside of our office. I didn’t have answers, I didn’t know how to comfort others, and for the first time in my life I struggled to find the positive aspects of this situation.

It’s been nearly 70 days since November 8th and it still feels like that day hasn’t finished. It may even be another 70 days and this feeling may still stay.

I’ve since left my campaigning grounds, and I’ve been trying to find closure or some middle ground amidst all the chaos. I know I don’t want to let anger and resentment win -- ‘cause that’s the easy way. I want to believe in the idea of engagement again with my heart -- and not just say it for the sake of saying it.

I am looking forward to the next chapter of achievements for some of the major movements in our country today, movements that will evolve from Black Lives Matter and women’s social issues. These next chapters when finally the day of the election will pass and my new day will dawn.

]]>Fri, 13 Jan 2017 16:28:37 GMThttp://www.townhalldialogue.com/reflections/day-after-america-broke-up-with-meThis submission was written by an anonymous contributor.

I was traveling so really our relationship depends on virtual waves. We keep in touch through notifications. Text messages about you from our common friends. The daily going-ons so I can pretend that, despite the time zones and distance, I am living real time everything you experience.

November 8, 2016. I went to bed that night while you were still awake. We went to bed not at peace. Somewhere in this day threads of unease stitched and held. You started saying things. Or may be this was finally the only way you could get me to listen.

So late. Why didn’t you say anything last summer? Why are you waiting until now to bring this up? Why does this have to be your grand stand? I thought communication was our strong suit. Wrong.Everything about us depended on communication. (Wasn’t I listening?) Or did you think it safer to say what I wanted to hear? (Or did I only hear what I thought best?) May be you thought I wouldn’t take it so well, if you honestly shared your doubts and concerns, these sentiments now leading hands and guiding pens to certain boxed ticks.

All this time. These past four years. The last eight.Has this just been us playing pretend, a society we just aren’t?

I went to bed my night - your day - troubled by your mutterings. America - we rarely go to bed fighting. Yet if I look back at the last few years - how many days have we ended heavy? You have been showing me glimpses of your underbelly. And now I am sewing all those moments and growing sick with realization. Because it is not one mishap or hiccup. It is a collection that forms an image, and in those worst moments, it was still you. I want to call you a bigot. Scream that you are a racist. Point to a map on the wall and pin it with colors to show those places and all people you have failed.

November 9, 2016.Early morning my time and finally you are asleep across the ocean. I am emotionally drained. My body heavy, soul intact. I cry in the middle of that apartment on a street I can’t remember in a neighborhood where I have no mark in a country that I have never cared to visit. I cry again in the shower. Once more, perhaps, before putting on my make up. Black dress ready, mourning attire. As I walk out and veer onto cobbled streets - all I can think about is the past. I remind myself: This happens. It has happened to countless other people, societies throughout history. This path that I am walking - the morning after political shock - this, too, was walked before. And then, too, an individual much like myself faced similar decisions. I have to revisit my currency - my value. My privilege is my protection. But there are others who will bear the fall out. And so I have to evaluate my blessings and their utility. There are decisions to make. There is a history to be made. There is much to be lived.

As for you, my country - love: have you failed me? No. Am I disappointed in you? So much. Can you be better? I hope. God bless.

]]>Mon, 09 Jan 2017 01:56:24 GMThttp://www.townhalldialogue.com/reflections/the-day-after-its-the-morning-of-november-9-2016This submission was written by an anonymous contributor.

It's the morning of November 9, 2016. The scene? A quiet corporate office in Washington D.C. But something's different today. Instead of the routine whir of fax machines and printers, hushed sniffles and sighs float over cubicle walls. Used kleenexes are piled upon desks. Somber red eyes stare into the middle distance.I'm a lobbyist at a well-known progressive institution in D.C. We had a huge electoral investment in the Hillary Clinton campaign. Dozens of us were deployed across the country: canvassing, knocking on doors, organizing, phone banking. Meanwhile back in Washington, the rest were studiously drawing up plans for a hopeful future. But somewhere between 10pm and midnight the previous night, that hope dissolved into surreal chaos. So it's understandable that the people I work with -- many of whom are dear friends, most of them well-educated white women -- were openly distraught. We should all be able to express our feelings. And this was a disaster on an unprecedented scale.Surely everyone gets a mourning period.… Right?

But if that's true, why did I feel so irritated?Why was I, a South Asian Muslim man with immigrant parents, unable to extend my sympathy as we sullenly marched into our morning staff meeting?Maybe it's because earlier that morning my mom texted me, asking me what a "safety plan" was and whether my family needed one. Or maybe it’s because me and many of my brown and black friends had been, at best, ambivalent about either candidate’s use of Muslims and immigrants as mere rhetorical devices throughout their campaigns. Or maybe it’s because people of color have continued to come under threat in this country and my grief has never felt welcome in the presence of my white coworkers. Indeed, throughout that day, I noticed that very few of my colleagues of color felt comfortable advertising their own electoral angst.

"Unity" has been cemented as a slogan in the progressive movement. Divided, we fall, they say. But what are marginalized groups to do when so-called unity is invoked only when it's politically expedient? And how come unity always means asking us to subordinate our needs and fears to theirs?

With the help of people of color, immigrants, religious minorities, and queer folks, I think we might actually weather the next four years and turn the tide. It won’t be easy but it’s doable. But once it's all clear, will they forget about us again?

It was 5 a.m. on Wednesday, November 9. I was wide awake, after collapsing in bed at 1 a.m. What happened the night before had stirred in me my deepest fears. It couldn’t be true.I quickly opened my phone and Googled “election.”There it was, glaring at me in red and blue.What. The. Fuck.

I thought about my mentally handicapped sister. My interracial family that included a black brother-in-law and three black nieces. My LGBTQ cousins. My immigrant Indian family. My pride of four sisters and four nieces. And all of us - the Muslim-Americans living in a post-Trump era.

Our president-elect had successfully run a campaign that 100 percent attacked everything that my family and I were. Our very, entire existence.

And so for the first time in my life, I cried over the results of an election. It felt like a betrayal in the deepest depths of my heart. This wasn’t like when George W. was re-elected. This felt tragic in Shakespearean terms.

I wanted to know who they were, the Trump voters. Why did they hate me and people of my ilk? I read news stories about the rise of white supremacy, how angry, misinformed white people got Mr. Trump elected.

As most of my friends took to post their grief on Facebook, I wrote that I felt like I had woken up to a dystopian reality where all of my male, white, angry childhood bullies were in charge. Several people responded to offer their support, telling me we would all rally against the currency of hate Mr. Trump so easily normalized.

But the strange thing about dealing with racism and hate in all its manifestations, is that it makes you feel so alone. I had been in touch with my sisters, family and friends who also were devastated, but there I was, laying in bed, afraid to face the day. I felt like I was that five-year-old kindergarten girl again who was facing off against my childhood bully, a boy named Jarrett who despised me for merely existing.But my tears weren’t only for me. My Iraqi boyfriend was nervous about a Trump presidency as well. The first question he asked me that morning: “who won?” And so I cried again.

“Please don’t keep crying about this,” he begged.

He tried to sound cheerful, optimistic. He attempted to crack jokes. But I could read the terror on his face too.

After spending most of the morning under my covers (I'm a communications consultant who works from home) it was nearing 1 p.m.

“We have to do something today,” he said quietly. He suggested that we go to the National Museum of Women in the Arts. I was exhausted and numb so I went along with his suggestion.

When I walked outside into my new normal, D.C. was gray and gloomy. I slowly climbed on the bus and looked around. People spoke in hushed tones, their faces blank and vacant canvasses. A sadness clung to the air. When we finally reached the museum I knew what I wanted to see. After taking in several pieces, we climbed the stairs to the third floor, where the museum displays their one and only Frida Kahlo piece.

On that day, a tragic one for all of America, I stared at the Mexican artist’s self-portrait and finally felt a stirring of hope. Because if there is anything Frida has taught me it is this: we will survive but it won’t be easy.

Since then, it’s been momentary lapses of happiness and hope. I forget when I share a moment with friends. I forget when I go to the gym and work out. But I’m reminded when I log onto social media, read the news or get real with friends.

“Can you believe Donald Trump is our president?” I asked my sisters, several days after the election. We had just watched a romantic comedy to take our minds off the madness and when the credits rolled, we remembered. We shook our heads in disbelief.

Last night I had dinner with a childhood friend. She knows all about my past, my childhood trauma.

“I immediately thought of you,” she told me. “I know this is achingly painful with all of its many triggers.”

And so we said sorry, to each other. For being brown, for being Muslim, for being women. For our planet in a climate crisis, for women’s reproductive rights and the LGBTQ community. For all of us who are now being told we don’t matter. For this new painful reality we all are living. I am so sorry.]]>Sun, 18 Dec 2016 13:49:48 GMThttp://www.townhalldialogue.com/reflections/the-day-after-teaching-in-the-era-of-trumpSamra Adeni is an ESL specialist teacher working in the DC public school system

I woke up on November 8th in an excellent mood. I walked to work as usual, assuming my Arrival Duty post at the front gates, greeting parents and children with hugs, high-fives, and handshakes. Today, I added something special for the parents:“Good morning, don’t forget to vote today!” My school is right opposite a voting location, and as I watched people from all ages, races, and walks of life lining up to cast their ballot, I felt hopeful.In my 4th grade class that morning, I clasped my hands together. “Good morning 4th grade!”“Good morning Ms. Adeni!” "Who can tell me what's important about today?"My kids yelled, "IT'S ELECTION DAY!" Their excitement warmed my heart. A student - the one who had been the target of an Islamophobic racial slur by a fellow classmate, the only student in the entire school who wore the headscarf - raised her hand. "Ms. Adeni, who did you vote for?"I paused. "Well, as your teacher, I should tell you that you generally shouldn't ask people that, because it's personal. However..."The kids waited in pin-drop silence."In this particular election, the choice is clear. I am happy to tell you that I support Hillary Clinton."The class promptly cheered, "SO DO WE!!!"

That day, I read aloud to five different classrooms from the Kelly diPucchio picture book, "Grace For President," about an elementary school girl who is shocked to find out there has never been "a girl president" and is determined to be the first one. The school hosts a mock election with students representing states and their electoral votes, and the vote is very close - a young boy named Sam, representing the state of Wyoming, has to cast the deciding ballot. Grace's opponent, Thomas, is confident, assuming Sam will vote for him - he is a boy, after all. But Sam casts his electoral votes for Grace instead. Thomas looks stunned. Grace hugged Sam. "Why did you do it?" she asked. Sam handed Grace his flag. "Because," he said, "I thought you were the best person for the job." ~By evening, I was exhausted. We - a mix of students and young professionals - had all brought laptops and books with us as we sat there at Busboys and Poets, craning our necks to look at the TV screens, cheering along with the other liberal patrons every time a state was called for Hillary. But it was going to be such a long evening, the end was so far, and I was so tired.

"Just go home,” my parents whatsapped me around 10:00pm - it was 8:30am in Hyderabad, India, where they live.“I can’t go home,” I replied to my parents, even as the clock struck 11:00pm and my phone flagged at 17%. “I want to be able to tell my daughters where I was when America elected its first female president!” I wanted to tell them I had been with their Aunty Ev and their Aunty Jay and their other aunties at Busboys and Poets, in the nation’s capital. Maybe years from now I would take my children here, and after we’d toured the monuments and the museums, I would take them to the best restaurant in D.C., saying, “This is where Mommy was the night we elected Hillary Clinton.”

"I just want Hillary to hit 270 so I can go to sleep," I whined. My phone had died. I had drifted off on a friend’s shoulder. The next thing I remember is my friend Fatima handing me her phone. A mutual friend had been trying to reach me for a while and had ultimately texted her. "Is Samra okay? I'm worried about her. Tell her I miss her, and I wish I was there."

I jolted awake. "Is it really that bad"? I looked at Rachel Maddow's stoic expression, at the dismal Electoral College on-screen graphic, at my friends' somber faces. The mood had shifted. The room was less crowded; less laughter. I felt unbelievably tired. But I couldn’t go home, because going home now, after it all, would mean admitting that it was never going to happen. That this dream we all thought would become reality tonight, was going to be taken away, replaced with a frightening, dystopian future for America.That the glass ceiling was not about to be shattered, it was about to be reinforced with seven layers of steel.Around midnight, I saw the tearful face of one of my closest friends, Evelyn, who had been #withHer from the very beginning, who was one of the fiercest and most progressive people I knew. “…..I’m going to go home. I…..I don’t think she’s going to win.”

And when I heard Evelyn finally acquiesce defeat, I knew it was over. ~I got home that night at 2:00am, and when my phone finally turned back on, there were texts from friends, from relatives, from colleagues, from allies. “Are you okay?” “I am so sorry. I wish I could give you a hug right now.” I didn’t sleep until 3. Another three hours later, I woke up and washed my face, which still wore a crumpled, defeated expression. At work, a colleague asked me if I was okay and I burst into tears at 7:50am as she hugged me and patted me on the back. “I know, I know….I can’t believe it either.”

The hallways were covered with posters from in-class mock elections in various grades that no one had had time to take down yet. Without an exception, every single classroom had voted for Hillary.

In 5th grade, two of my Hispanic students were in tears.In the hallway, I saw my little headscarved student and gave her a huge hug. I saw the Ethiopian-American kid who had nervously told me months ago that if Trump were elected, his family would be kicked out. I had told him then, “Don’t worry - America would never allow such a thing to happen.” Today, I gave him a hug too.

“Ms. Adeni, are you sick?” asked another student.“No, sweetheart, I’m just sad.”“Because of last night?”“Yes.” He opened his arms, and this time, I knew it was I who needed the hug, not him. “How about you, sweetie, are you doing okay?”My kid shrugged. “I’m like, sad on the inside, but, I’m trying to be happy, like on the outside.”

In the end, what heartened me most was the Morning Meeting message a colleague wrote for her class:

“Good Morning 2nd Grade Scholars,Today is Wednesday, November 9th, 2016. For Specials, we have P.E. with Mr. Reid.Yesterday in our classroom election, Hillary Clinton won our votes 22-1. However, in the national election, Donald Trump was elected to be our country’s new president starting in January.While it is okay to be upset, we should not be scared or afraid. There are people who will continue to work for the things Hillary Clinton represented, (including her!)With Love,Your Teachers.”

I used to consider myself white. It didn't occur to me to think of myself differently. In spite of my Arab name, no one stopped me at airports or told me to go back to my country. I looked like this was "my country."

In college, I met more Muslims, and somewhere along the way I stopped feeling just white. There was more nuance to my identity, but still I had privilege. A few years after graduating, I started wearing hijab. I walked around those first few weeks with my shoulders tensed, ready for confrontation, but nothing came. Maybe I confused people? Maybe they thought I was a confused white girl?

Even as a hijab-wearing Muslim of North African immigrant descent, it didn't feel right to consider myself a person of color. But that changed with this election. Perhaps I can still pass, but it doesn't feel that way.I feel fear which my white family members and friends will likely never know or understand. And hasn't this election taught us the power of fear?]]>Fri, 18 Nov 2016 14:55:15 GMThttp://www.townhalldialogue.com/reflections/-the-day-after-guttedAsma Mahdi, Los Angeles, CA

Gutted. The morning of November 8th, and every morning since, I wake up feeling gutted. 5:30am: Deep breaths. Right now that's all you can control, take deep breaths. 6:00am: I pick up my phone to double check that this isn't some warped reality.

I knew. I knew since the day that Donald Trump became the Republican nominee that he would be elected. I knew because he ran this campaign on fear. I questioned many friends, especially my white friends, who were passive as their family and friends voted for Trump while they voted for Hillary -- I still don't understand how they could sit with that company in such ease.

Since the announcement, I have felt this election running through my veins every breathing moment since he became president-elect. There is not one part of my identity that he hasn't ran against. As a Muslim. A woman. An environmental scientist. And yet, he somehow became president. It makes me sick to my stomach every time I think about it.

It has been hard to exist at work, at home, in public spaces, and even around friends. I've had some friends tell me it's going to be okay. I don't even know what that means. My unstated response is, "it must be nice to live a life of privilege and have never felt attacked for just existing." Before November 8th, that thought only ever surfaced every now and then -- usually, when I noticed people blatantly exercising their white privilege. Now it's always sitting there at the forefront of my mind. To those that have said it is going to be okay, here's my answer: "Actually, NO. It's not going to be 'okay.' Don't tell me it's going to be 'okay.' You don't understand what I or my community is dealing with."

What hurts above all is my country's open rejection of my existence. It's not like I didn't already know how some people felt, but you sure know how to cut a scar deeper, America. It doesn't matter what excuse a Trump supporter says to me or what I read in the thousand articles I have consumed since. Supporting Donald Trump was a vote to support vile, racist, misogynistic demagogue and a vote to conserve whiteness. Anyone who dares tells me otherwise is wrong. When we vote for a person, we vote to support their entire platform of ideas even if it is not something that makes us comfortable. We are choosing to say, "Yes that's 'okay.' " So if you voted Trump, then I heard you say that you support racism and xenophobia, that you don't care about our planet, and you voted against my very being. What's left for me to say? I feel physically and emotionally assaulted.

The only way to describe this post-election period is volatile. Some days are better than others. Some days are just a sea of emotions. And, nothing will change this outcome, but protesting in Los Angeles and working on connecting with community organizers across the region -- I have to do whatever I can to end this terror. It's the only thing that is keeping me going.

To my Muslim, Mexican, Black, LGBTQ, and every marginalized community -- this is just the beginning of our fight. I'm exhausted, but I won't stop. ]]>Fri, 27 Feb 2015 12:59:44 GMThttp://www.townhalldialogue.com/reflections/relationships-how-do-we-do-this-what-are-we-doingBy: Sadia

In the science world, I have been taught that the most important tenet of an experiment is asking a good question. #nerdalert Alas (yes, that’s right I just used the word alas), what is life but a series of experiments? When I was twenty-one, I thought I had all the answers and, more importantly, I was asking all the right questions. But which twenty-one year-old doesn’t think that?At the ripe old age of 21, I was introduced to someone. We thought we hit it off. We hung out, maybe twice. Our families met, and all seemed right. He liked to cook, I didn’t. He liked to work out, I liked to run. We both picked Gryffindor as our house of choice. The Sorting Hat is never wrong, right? For one reason or another (circumstances out of our control) things didn't work out. I was flabbergasted. I thought we had covered all the important, right questions. I mean, aren’t all meaningful relationships founded on the facts that both people like musicand Harry Potter?

Time passed, life went on, and now I look back and think - "Sadia, what were you thinking?" We got to "know" each other (one could even question if we ever “knew” each other) but never did we actually get to know each other. How we both came to the conclusion that we were compatible without ever having the right conversations - the one that distinguishes friendship from a true relationship - boggles my mind now. We never made that leap. There were definitely some greater forces at work because our two lives now, seven years later, are completely different than either of us could have imagined.

This “life experiment” and some others that followed have led me to a series of questions that I am still trying to answer. What does THE right relationship entail? When does it happen? Is it something organic? Or is it something that is going to be awkward regardless, but necessary? What are the right questions to ask? How much do you need to discuss? Do you have to have all the answers before moving to the next step? How much do you leave to the "we'll grow together" aspect? The questions to me feel endless.

When I’m in that “right relationship”, for me, I’ll let you know what it involves and when (in the context of life stages) it happens but I have been able to answer some of these other questions, at least for right now. I think relationships do happen organically. Organic does not exclude a friend set-up, meeting someone online or the like. It involves two people meeting and getting to know each other, like really know each other - sharing real experiences, raw emotions and being completely honest. Getting to know someone so that they can share the thoughts in their head, the ones that they want to share but don’t, due to fear of judgement. And it will be awkward (mostly because I <3 awkward), but not awkward as in we’re “playing games” awkward, but more like cutesy awkward where two people are trying to figure out how to navigate through this process - a process that is unique to any two individuals.I think we each have to define our own set of “right questions.” I don’t think it’s a checklist. It’s kind of like that box on Ishqr: “Things you’d like in a significant other.” It’s a box which requires us to sit down and really evaluate what we feel is important. It helps us eliminate that “deer in the headlights” approach that is contributing to this messy marriage situation in our community. It requires us to be honest with ourselves. We have to recognize that this box is more for helping us realize what we hold valuable.

Seven years ago I could not have imagined that I would be where I am today in life. Everytime I think about “meeting someone” I wonder, how do I account for the fact that neither of us knows where either of us will be in life in 1, 3, or 5 years? Things happen, global events, family crises, perspectives change. How do I account for this when I am trying to evaluate whether this relationship "works?" Maybe that’s the “jumping in and growing together” part that is so frequently talked about.

Then there's the question of honesty and vulnerability in a relationship. Growing up in a community where our parents/elders met each other on their wedding day (or not so long before) and knowing that for them being vulnerable came after they were married seems so foreign to me. They took a leap and alhamdulillah it’s worked. How do I reconcile that with how I think things should work? (Not that they have so far, but it’s a process) I am jumpy at the thought of of letting anyone know what I do for a living - just to avoid their preconceived perceptions about my profession, and using those to define who I am as a person, as a Muslim. How do I choose who I share my full story with? (my story = the uncensored, unfiltered, raw footage of the last twenty-eight years of my life) How do I decide that I know someone well enough to be let them know me as I know me? How do we get to know someone’s else’s story, like their real story, all those experiences that make them the person that we’re falling in love with now? How do we get this courage to be vulnerable in ways that have we’ve never been taught?

For me sharing my story is a scary thought. I was raised in a world where girls and women didn’t share their vulnerabilities with others. But for me I realized that even if I met the perfect guy tomorrow, I am not sure how comfortable I am with sharing my full story, simply because it’s scary.

It's scary to open yourself up to someone and not know how that person will respond, and to put yourself out there with the possibility that “rejection” is an option. But I think that’s the point, I think that’s where love develops and respect deepens. When I came to this realization I also realized that I didn’t know how to do this. It’s not easy to be that honest with oneself, let alone with someone you may potentially spend the rest of your life with. I needed practice (it’s like yoga right?). So I decided to share parts of my story that I had kept close to my heart with others, to people who I didn’t know in different aspects of my life. And I was pleasantly surprised. While there were some reactions that validated the rationale of why doing this is so hard, I experienced something greater. An acceptance; a love that was unlike anything I’d known before. It made a place that I viewed as a transition point in my life feel like home, filled with people that took my story as just that: a series of experiences that made me the person I am today. These people became a community, my community - one for me to learn from and contribute to. Telling my story has also helped me intrinsically, to process through things, to remember to be kinder to myself. It helped me break through stereotypes that I had not recognized in my mind. It has helped me realize that I want to know the full story of everyone I meet. So until I meet “that someone” I’ll keep just keep practicing, I’ll listen to stories and share mine.

I strongly believe that Allah (swt) has a plan for each and every one of us and that sabr is a virtue. However, I think that sabr should be practiced in the context of being “being the change we want to see” - in getting to know each other, in helping each other, initiating and contributing to conversations to build a community that strengthens our old relationships and helps us develop new ones.

All I can say is that relationships are created during the process of community building, whether based on faith, ethnicity, profession, or hobbies; whether they start out in the real-world or in the virtual space. So let’s hang out and build our community, and good things will come.

I remember meeting a hakim along the path to knowing love, who once told me that God must destroy all idols. I had come to him with a broken heart, lamenting the fact that long lasting partnerships eluded me. I harbored fantasies of what it would be like for a relationship to endure. At the same time, I allowed cruelty and neglect to pervade relationships, putting prospects on a pedestal, and I did not commit to the work that love requires. I had turned them into objects of my affection. This is how I understood that the hakim wasn't talking about worshipping golden cows. It is much easier to love the idea of someone, than to see who they are. To carry on unaware of yourself and your needs, instead of revealing vulnerability, uncertainty, and imperfection. But this is how many of us enter into relationships with each other. Whether we're searching for marriage or a fling, we don't see one another.

We inhabit a culture obsessed with perfection, one that is simultaneously mired in prejudice and structural inequality. If a prospect does not meet our extensive standards based on class, race, or level of religiosity, we toss them aside to find another. Why settle for anything less when we have so many options? In such a culture, we turn people into objects or idols. They represent ideas that promise to improve our deen or veer us off track. They symbolize racial and cultural fetishes as well as familial expectations. When the search for love is premised on these notions, it is difficult to realize our longterm needs and to truly love each other.

In bell hooks' groundbreaking work, All About Love, she talks about a pervading sense of love illiteracy in our culture. We mostly learn what love is from dysfunctional models in the media, from our families, and communities. Her primary concern is how love is mystified through intangible definitions and damaged by power dynamics. While many writers philosophize about love, we are not instructed on its practice. Most importantly, we aren't aware of how sexism, racism, classism and homophobia inhibit our ability to know love.

It's hard to recognize how prejudice informs the way we pursue relationships beyond the typical racial and classist profiling of marriage prospects. We hear khateebs declare that Islam is inclusive of all races, yet this is not reflective of the reality. Many of our families have stipulations for our suitors that greatly limit our choices. They must be from the same tribe, fair-skinned, and of a certain body type. On the other hand, some only date or marry those outside the ummah stemming from community-loathing, marginalization, lack of belonging, and even fetishizing another race. But these lines are often blurred. We don't have the opportunity to explore love prospects within our community until we reach the point of settling down. This is due to a great amount of cultural shaming, gender segregation, and imbedded homophobia. For many young muslims, we learn in Islamic school that improper gender interactions are a sin. We fear having feelings in case it's a transgression against God. Inhabiting these strict homosocial spaces makes it easier to stereotype and misunderstand one another when it comes time to talk about marriage.

Despite knowing some of these barriers, we haven't been able to address how prejudicial attitudes hamper the practice of love in Muslim communities. This is especially the case where sexism intersects with love. We struggle to talk about sexism due to the political ramifications. Islamophobes want us to admit we have a problem, when we know most societies have a problem with misogyny, sexual violence, and other forms of violence against women. We know it's not unique to any creed or way of life. Nevertheless, knowing that this kind of racism hangs over our heads does not make it less important for us to confront our social realities, especially existing power dynamics.

bell hooks dedicates much of her writing to exploring the intersection between power dynamics and love. She begins by pointing out gender disparities based on heterosexual relationships. Early on, girls are socialized to desire romance, to pursue longterm relationships, and cultivate themselves as marriage material. Men receive a very different education on love, which translates into inequalities at an intimate level. This idea rings true in our current state of straight relationships. Many Muslim women have confessed that they cannot find male partners who understand love as deeply as they do. Some male partners exert their power over a relationship by being emotionally unavailable, elusive, and condescending to women. In fact, these same men may admit their resistance to vulnerability. They are socialized to be the family leaders, breadwinners, and pillars of stoic strength. In this model of masculinity, men are at a disadvantage. They must fear emotional honesty in order to uphold societal expectations of manhood. As a result, this fear inhibits connection, intimacy, and honesty.

So how do all these pieces fit together and why is it important? The way we are currently socialized does not prepare us to be real with one another. Contrary to popular belief, biodatas, CVs, and carefully crafted dating profiles are not a gateway to love. When looking for a partner, our expectations stem from fantasies and our particular socialization. I was once told by a Muslim guy who only dated white girls that I was the perfect blend of white and brown, Muslim and secular, and everything his parents wanted for him. This man did not really know me, but he thought he did based off of superficial identity markers. What's worse is how he looked to me as the solution for all his problems in the same way that men look at hijabis as tools to improve their deen. In the act of creating ideal partner checklists, we are itemizing whole human beings. Reducing them to words and identities that don't encompass their humanity. Because we do not spend time learning about love or gender dynamics until we're pressured to get married, we misunderstand and mistreat each other. Our greatest barrier on the path to love lies in the assumption that we know what it takes, when there is still much work to be done. We must smash our monumental expectations and erect new spaces for love.

]]>Mon, 16 Feb 2015 18:44:09 GMThttp://www.townhalldialogue.com/reflections/1-year-into-the-townhall-journey-compassion-friends-ingenuity﻿A short blog post for our readers as we gear up for another year of an incredible journey that started in 2014. January 28th marked the first year anniversary of our first official Townhall Dialogue event (at least the version that’s been officialized since its initial inceptions). It's hard not to feel nostalgic over this first Townhall anniversary. I distinctly remember when Aqsa talked to me about this for the very first time- brainstorming the format, talking about how we don’t know how this will all turn out and definitely not knowing at that point how frequently these events would happen throughout the year. At that point in time, it was about gathering a small group of passionate folks. What would happen from there--we didn’t know. We didn’t know who would stay involved or even who would stay in the city for future events. We certainly didn't know how it would expand.

I asked some of the organizers (past and present) to share their favorite insight and/or memory of Townhall. Here’s a snippet of those answers. Very candid, very casual and straight from the heart -favorite memories from the past year of busting our arses to make the Townhall Dialogue Series what it is today, and to keep making it better as a reflection of the community and the community’s needs.﻿

Andrew Clark "I would say mine was the night when we all met at the Coupe (which one, am I right?) to discuss some feedback from an event. This particular evening, however, would turn to a dialogue on holding one another accountable for our commitments and the feelings that stem from broken trust. Not the happiest of moments for some of us, and perhaps awkward for others given we rarely have those direct conversations elsewhere in our lives, but I think the experience is a microcosm of what we as a community stand-for: honesty in the open, pushing ourselves to be better communicators, and a family that expects the best from each other."

Asma Mahdi"Narratives. Every person in the Muslim community has a unique narrative - a story to learn from, a story to grow from, or a story that can truly touch the heart. Townhall has brought these stories together and provided a space for us to have a dialogue, which is essential for growth within ourselves and ﻿our community. That's what attracted me to this dynamic group of folks who sought a new space to nourish our community. As 2015 unfolds, I'm excited to see the Townhall Dialo﻿gue Series bring a new breadth of topics to light that will continue to foster this growth within the Ummah!"

Brian Loo"Maybe this is a silly thing, but I always think of the very, very beginning of the Townhall idea, which for me was more like two and a half years ago instead of one. I remember back when the idea of a Townhall series---bringing the disparate members of our community into an open, safe space to talk about issues that are deeply relevant to our community but rarely talked about in public---was just a harebrained idea that a few people on the Yaro Collective board wanted to try out. We scraped together a Townhall on critically examining the role that the hijab, as an idea, a symbol, a piece of cloth, whatever, plays in our community's narratives. That first event was a moderate success, but nothing would have come of it if Aqsa Mahmud hadn't been there that night and decided to get involved and eventually took the initiative to get the rest of you all involved, alhamdulillah, and reincarnate our original idea as the living, breathing effort it is today. I guess I just feel grateful that such humble beginnings have led to something that continues on so vibrantly. "

Aqsa Mahmud"What I will always remember from the 2014 Dialogues is one afternoon, when I met with a model speaker to prep her a few days before the event. We sat by the window of a relatively empty coffee shop--laughed some, checked in and shared ourselves. We built a bubble of comfort and vulnerability, because I was going to ask her to form the words to describe a struggling experience of her American Muslim identity.What do you want to tell people? I asked her. What do you want to say?

And she began.Her words built an image of childhood, relayed the anxiety and tension of her experiences, and bloomed into a story of personal growth, strength and realization of herself as a Muslim. I was awestruck at the woman before me.

Afterwards, we sat in a saturated silence broken only by an elderly woman who slipped a note onto our table as she walked out the door. We were both startled until we read the note and began to understand:This stranger had overheard my friend's story and scribbled a note of compassion.

You're young, she wrote. You're loved. The lesson of her age is to be strong. Yes, we have our stories and experiences. But there is a strength to life. So be strong.

I'll always remember this: A stranger in a coffee shop overheard our story and recognized the core elements of our community: We're a strength and support to each other. We love, hurt, experience and support each other in the continuation of our journey."

~

Cheers to a new year friends :) Leave your comments, share your thoughts - we want to hear from you and invite you on our journey. Keep your eyes peeled on news to celebrate with us at our next dialogue due to be held on February 28th, 2015. -Fahmida Azad